


five times Tom was really done with his roommates' shit, and one time he just couldn't be bothered anymore

by sternenrotz



Category: The Horrors (Band)
Genre: 5 Times, Explicit Sexual Content, Loud Sex, M/M, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, Roommates, Sexual Confusion, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:37:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternenrotz/pseuds/sternenrotz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>title is self-explanatory. Tom lives with Joe and Rhys, who have really loud sex, and a lot of it, at that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five times Tom was really done with his roommates' shit, and one time he just couldn't be bothered anymore

1\. The alarm clock blinks 1.24 in red neon letters, and in the next room over, Joe is riding Rhys.

How Tom can tell, it's by the way the bedsprings squeak but there's no headboard slamming into the wall to go with it, and Rhys' low voice periodically hissing “faster, faster, come on,” without the corresponding squeals and moans that slip out when he's the one getting fucked. From Joe come these short, deep groans, just low enough that they're barely audible, and of course, the sound of skin-slapping-skin. All of that combines into the kind of noise that makes it literally impossible to try and fall asleep.

This is the third time this week. It's only Thursday. Friday morning, technically, but.

Still, though, Tom supposes it could be worse. They could be doing it from behind, with Joe's hands pushing the headboard against the wall with every thrust, or they could be using the wall for leverage.

That's a bit creepy sounding, isn't it, the fact that Tom can tell what position they're fucking in just by the noises that come through the wall. In his defence, it's been over four months of this and he's managed to get maybe one night of decent sleep each week. He's beginning to miss tour, fuck.

Next door, there's a thud, a crash of bed springs and Joe whines, “fuck, oh my God,” and then there's the headboard, that sound that Tom has been almost anticipating in horror. Seems like they've switched positions. Missionary it is, then. The bedsprings squeal and whine and Joe keeps on moaning, louder now, and Tom would think, _hope_ , that this means he's getting close to coming and this will be over soon, but then, he knows better than that.

Could still be worse. At least Rhys isn't the one bottoming this time. Tom is honestly surprised that the neighbours haven't called the police yet, and he'd reckon that Rhys is doing it on purpose, keening and spluttering and fucking _howling_ , just to piss him off.

“That, that. Do that again,” Joe's voice rings through the wall, and they both groan in unison, a small series of “oh, oh, oh,” and the headboard bangs faster into the wall.

“You mean like that?”

“Yeah, just, just don't stop.”

Tom slams the flat of his hand against the wall that connects the two bedrooms. “Keep it down, fuckssake!”

Not that it helps, because it never does. He's almost sure they're both doing it on purpose.

On the bedside, the red LEDs of the alarm clock read 1.27. Ten more minutes of this, at least. Tom feels dead-tired and heavy-headed, and next door, Joe makes an embarrassing squeaking sound and asks for it harder.

2\. They've got a rehearsal at too-fucking-early-in-the-morning. Too fucking early means two in the afternoon, but earlier that day, Tom's peaceful half-drunken sleep had been interrupted by the sound of Rhys moaning and begging for it from the bathroom.

Shower sex, Rhys getting fucked from behind until the hot water runs out, a classic one.

They have a tube of lube hidden between the bottles of shampoo explicitly for that purpose. Honestly. Not even anything particularly subtle, but the kind of lube that makes it obvious that it's intended to ease dicks into places they're not supposed to go, and as a result of that, Tom is never trying for morning after shower sex on the occasion that he pulls a girl ever again.

That's not exactly the point, though, the point is that Tom is hungover and tired and pissed off, and as a result of Rhys and Joe's early morning bathroom activities, he's roughly ten times more tired and pissed off than he would normally be under these circumstances. He must have fucked up a simple chord for the fifth time by the time that the others notice it, too, and then their shoddy practice space comes kind of to a halt.

The last few notes from Josh's guitar ring out over the amplifier it's plugged up to, and then Faris asks, “Tom. What the fuck is wrong with you today?”

Faris looks at Tom with a look on his face like he's about ready to rip his head off, praying mantis style. Except, right, female praying mantises rip the male's head off after sex, don't they. Tom is honestly not at all in the mood to think of anything that remotely involves sex right now, considering that the reason he's in this mood is the sex other people are having in his immediate vicinity, so let's try that again.

Faris is looking at him with a look on his face like he's about ready to chop his head off with an axe or something not sexual like that. Tom would feel insulted, if he didn't know Faris well enough to know that it's his obtuse way of showing that he cares.

“It's nothing,” Tom starts, and when he realises how obvious it is that it's got to be something, he adds, lamely, “'m just tired.”

“Well, maybe you should sleep more, then,” Faris says, and this time, there's something malicious in his voice, schadenfreude, maybe.

Behind the drum kit, Joe's lips curl into a little grin, and he doesn't have to turn to know that the same expression is mirrored by Rhys. From somewhere across the room, Josh is trying badly to stifle his laughter, and right then, it hits Tom that he knows, that both Josh and Faris know what's keeping him up.

Really, Tom is pretty sure that he's the only one who handled the information that Joe and Rhys are shagging, going out, at that, even remotely maturely, when they first found out, considering that he didn't spend the next few days subtly moping and scribbling away into his notebook or making dick jokes. Now, now that he's become the butt of the joke that is Rhys and Joe's sex life, Tom is sure that he's the only mature one in this room. He's got the urge to punch something. Preferably Faris' smug face, but on the other hand, Faris looks like he'd punch back.

“Yeah,” Tom just says instead, and immediately feels like a bit of a twat for being about as assertive as a soggy teabag, “can we try that again?”

3\. Next door, Joe is fucking Rhys with his legs hoisted up high onto his shoulders, and Tom has managed to bring a bird back to the flat.

“You could have told me that you live with two poofs,” the bird says after it's been quiet for an uncomfortably long time save for the moans and the slamming of the headboard from the other room. Her name is Kate. She likes David Bowie and has red hair and a tattoo of a goldfish on her hip.

“Sorry. I didn't think they were in tonight.”

The room smells like salty sweat and Tom feels drunker than he actually is. It's too warm, one of those humid summer nights where the heat creeps in through the window and presses him deeper into the sheets. Tom hates thinking about the weather, what a boring thing to contemplate, but right now, it only makes everything seem even more awkward, somehow.

“We could've gone back to mine.” Kate lights a cigarette from Tom's pack. “Not that far away.”

Where the sheets have ridden down to her waist, her nipples are stiff even in the warm air. One is pierced. Tom contemplates reaching out and flicking it, just to have something to do with his hands.

Next door, Rhys squeals a bit and lets loose a string of garbled obscenities, and Kate raps her knuckles against the wall. It doesn't serve to shut him up, of course not.

“The guy on the bottom has some strong vocal chords. It's impressive.”

“Yeah,” Tom says, “don't I know it.” Maybe it comes out more bitter than he really intended it to.

“Does this happen a lot?”

“Almost every night. And they've been going out for four years.”

Instead of a proper reply from Kate, Tom gets an “oh my fucking _God_ ” from Rhys through the wall.

It gets quiet for a long period of time yet again.

Seven minutes. Tom absolutely doesn't know that because he keeps obsessively checking the bedside alarm clock.

Okay, maybe he does. He's also wondering how much of a dick move it would be to simply kick Kate out of the flat, because this is all embarrassing enough as it is.

When those seven minutes are over and the noise is still coming from next door, Kate says, “they've got stamina. You've got to give them that.”

It sounds too passive-aggressive, and Tom says, for the second time that night, “I swear, this never happened to me before.”

“It's never happened to me before, either.” Kate's hand with the second cigarette she took from Tom in it describes a circular moment. “Sex that lasts for three minutes, I mean.”

“I told you, it's been bloody ages.” Tom feels too much like a soggy teabag again. “And I'm drunk.”

All right, he's had two beers, but it sounds like a decent enough excuse.

“Never heard of alcohol-induced premature ejaculation before.”

Not a decent excuse, then.

“Not being able to get it up, yeah, but _this_...” Kate trails off and Tom regrets taking her home in the first place.

He's struggling to come up with a comeback, but then he doesn't have to, because next door, Rhys splutters out a mix of high-pitched moans and “fuck me” over and over and sounds so much like a mediocre female porn star at that he can't possibly be not faking it. Tom wants to get up and strangle him, but instead, he reaches for his fags and lights one.

“You know what's funny, you were doing pretty well until that set in,” and Kate gestures to the wall.

“Are you trying to imply something with that?”

It's a stupid question, but the problem is, that in some twisted way, she's right. Not in the homoerotic way that she's thinking of, but Tom supposes there's some sick envy in there, knowing that both his flatmates have a more fulfilled sex life than he does, and honestly, objectively speaking, they're both very attractive men. Besides, considering that this kind of thing happens almost every night, it's got to be good fucking sex. Maybe the sound of it really does turn Tom on just a little, but then, if it's good, it's good, and in his defence, Rhys sounds almost like a girl when he's getting fucked.

“I don't know. All I'm saying is, most guys would be put off enough by the sounds of gay ass sex to do a better job.” Kate gives him a look, and Tom just stares back at her. Then his gaze trails down to her breasts, because they're there, and because it's easier than having to look her in the face. She's got great breasts, actually. Big, but still somewhat pert, with pretty pink nipples.

Maybe this night isn't over, yet.

“Harder, harder,” Rhys moans through the wall, and from Joe comes a small series of moans.

Tom takes Kate's stubby cigarette from her hand and puts it and his own freshly lit one out in the ashtray on the bedside. He rolls over and presses one hand onto the soft skin of Kate's torso, rests their foreheads together. She laughs.

“How about we try for a second round?”

“Might as well. Long as you don't come in three minutes again.”

Instead of replying, Tom places a soft bite onto the side of her neck.

This time, when they have sex, he makes a point to ignore the sounds coming from next door. When they finally stop, a few minutes after he's spread Kate out wide and slid in, Tom leans down and whispers to her, “want to get revenge?” and then they do.

Tom reckons he can hear Joe's voice shouting next door at one point, that and a banging noise coming through the wall, and that's almost better than the sex itself.

4\. Tom realises that he's got a problem roughly halfway through the few weeks that he spends in their tiny studio with Rhys. Well, honestly, it's not so much a problem as it's an inconvenience. A minor one, at that.

He feels it sneak up on him weeks earlier, maybe even before that, during casual moments. Some mornings, when they're sitting at their cramped little kitchen table eating, on good days, full English or pancakes or French toast as made by Rhys, or on bad days, whatever fried something Joe is trying to sell them as food.

(Tom does not bother with cooking breakfast on the days that it's his turn. Those days, they eat last night's leftovers and cornflakes, and no one complains because Tom is fucking terrible at cooking anything more complex than microwave pizza.)

The point is, some mornings, over breakfast, Tom will catch himself looking at Rhys' cheekbones or his dainty fingers, or at Joe's plump lips. Sometimes, during lunch or dinner, or when they're taking cigarette breaks. Then he looks at Rhys' mouth during his sad attempts to blow smoke rings, or at the way Joe's throat works when he inhales. During rehearsals, he watches Joe's biceps flexing while he drums and Rhys' thin little legs scattering all around the floor beneath the organ to some choreography he made up on the spot, because staying still when he's playing an instrument is virtually impossible for Rhys.

None of them are particularly modest back at their flat, considering that they spend a good part of their time crammed together in a van or bus or sharing the same dressing room before gigs, so sometimes, Tom will catch glimpses of Joe or Rhys not wearing much more than a towel. Joe is all straight lines, skinny but toned, while Rhys is soft and girlish with broad hips, despite how small he may be.

Sometimes, Tom stares for longer than he needs to, with the same appreciative gaze that he'd look at an attractive woman's body normally, and really, it's not a problem. He doesn't lie awake at night wanking over Rhys and Joe's sex sounds while moping because he'll never be in the middle of them, because that's a type of pathetic that Tom is reasonably sure he's not going to achieve any time soon.

It's just, he wouldn't particularly mind that. Being between Joe and Rhys, that is.

See, Tom is pretty sure that most of his friends have gone through a bi-curious phase at one point or another. For instance, he knows that Josh had his way back before the band, when he was still studying towards his physics degree, and he remembers Faris' bi-curious phase all too well. If it's his turn to question his sexuality now, then, well. That's still not the part where things get inconvenient, though.

The problem is, Rhys can basically smell when a guy is in his bi-curious phase. Like a sixth sense or something. Gaydar, perhaps.

When Joe was in his bi-curious phase, back when he was all of seventeen and had just met Rhys, Rhys figured it out pretty much instantly and then made Joe realise that maybe it's more than just a phase. Then, some years later, when Faris had his, Rhys snogged him a couple of times when they were both drunk, and yeah, Tom would definitely like to forget about how that turned out.

The point is, though, there's no way that Rhys doesn't know.

The day that the inconvenience becomes a real problem is a pretty normal day. They've been holed up in their makeshift studio since early morning, and Tom has been pretty successful in not letting his bi-curious thoughts about Rhys make things awkward. Rhys is sitting on the floor playing around with a large xylophone, almost childishly, and Tom has been trying to program a synthesiser, when Rhys' voice comes, “hey, Tom?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever kissed a man before?”

Rhys knows. Rhys fucking knows, and Tom is so, so screwed. Not literally, probably for the better, but still.

“Well, I snogged Josh over new year's,” he says, and hopes that Rhys is going to not ask any more weird questions. “You were right there, don't you remember?”

“Right,” Rhys says. He plays a short melody on his xylophone that doesn't sound like much of anything and makes a sound of dissatisfaction. “So. Do you ever think about sex with a man?”

“What?” It kind of slips out sounding a bit more horrified than Tom really is at the thought. He laughs. “Of course not. Sorry, Rhys, but I'm straight.”

“How do you know you're straight if you've never tried it?”

For once, Tom has a decent comeback ready. “How do you know you're gay if you've never had sex with a woman?”

Rhys gives him a look. “I'm bisexual. Just because I've been shagging the same man for the past few years doesn't mean,” he starts and then cuts himself off, and Tom laughs at his face yet again. “So, does that mean you'd like to try it?”

This is exactly how Rhys managed to pull Faris. Ask him some sexually-charged questions and whether he'd fancy trying it sometime, and next thing he knew, Faris was snogging Rhys at an after party, and then, some weeks later, fucking him in a cheap little hotel room, Rhys' moans so loud that Tom could hear them two rooms away. The aftermath of that had been ugly, to say the least, it had ended with Joe being rather upset and Faris being Faris, that's to say, possessive and scary and even more upset than Joe.

Yeah, if there's one thing that Tom definitely does not want to experience again, it's what happens when Rhys decides to take advantage of one of his band mates in a bi-curious phase.

“Don't you have a boyfriend?”

“We've talked it out,” Rhys says, calmly, and slides the length of his finger along the xylophone keys. It doesn't make much of a sound. “I reckon he might want to join.” Then, as if he spontaneously realised that Tom would rather not be having this conversation, he says, “do you ever think about how underrated the xylophone as an instrument is?”

5\. They've all gone out to this club and Tom has managed to pull a bird again.

This time, her name is Sarah. Dirty blonde hair, small breasts, vintage mod dress. She's young, like, barely old enough to drink young, and she used to be a dancer, she says. They take a taxi back to the flat, which is quiet, thankfully enough, save for some thumping music coming from the flat above them. Really, Tom can understand why no one has complained about the loud sex in his own flat yet.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks.

“Depends. What do you have?”

“Plenty. You want to come look?”

Tom enters the kitchen and pulls open the door to their liquor cabinet, and Sarah trails after him. They settle on vodka, soon enough, the expensive one that Tom is pretty sure belongs to Rhys, originally, and so he goes to look for some shot glasses that aren't all too chipped, as well.

“Do we sit down in your living room, or...?” Sarah starts.

“Living room, yeah,” Tom repeats. “We've got time.”

He keeps one arm around her shoulders when they walk the short way down the hall to the living room, and when he drags the door open. Then, though, oh.

The room is dark, which is pretty much what Tom would have expected, but in what little light is coming through the window, he thinks he can see something, someone, moving on the sofa. He thinks, hopes, that it's not what it looks like, but he switches the light on either way.

On the sofa, Rhys is spread out, shirt rucked up to his collarbones, trousers and briefs bunched around his knees. His mouth is hanging open in a vague 'O' shape, presumably because of the fact that Joe's lips are currently wrapped around his dick.

Tom's first response to all that is, “oh.”

Rhys starts, at that, and Joe does too. It makes an obscene popping sound when he pulls his mouth from Rhys' cock, which then just kind of lies hard and slick with spit against his stomach. Tom most definitely doesn't sneak a glance at it to see how big it is.

Okay, maybe he does. Only for a second.

“Oh,” both of them go in unison, almost, and Joe wipes his mouth.

“I'm sorry you had to see this,” Tom says, to Sarah, and then, to Joe and Rhys, “I didn't know you two were in.”

“We didn't think you'd be back this soon,” Joe states, and Rhys adds, “yeah,” and covers himself with a throw pillow. There's this malicious little glint in his eyes, as if he'd done that on purpose, and, fuck.

Tom absolutely does not want to have to deal with this. “I can't do this. Do you have anywhere we can go?”

Sarah shrugs and says, “not really.”

“I'm sorry about this,” Joe says. “We didn't hear you coming.” He's got blow job lips, Tom has noticed before, but now that he's just been caught actually sucking someone off, it seems all the more obvious.

“Can you at least put a towel on the couch the next time you have sex on it?” The couch is technically Rhys', but. “I'd like to be able to sit on that without knowing that one of you has had his bare arse there.”

“Noted,” Joe says, and Rhys adds, malice still evident in his voice, “towel on couch.”

Tom figures he might as well let them finish what they started, so he winds his arm around Sarah's shoulders once again and closes the door.

He swears he overhears Joe saying “shame they didn't want to join in.”

Rhys adds, “right? His bird was fit, too,” and Tom pretends he didn't hear either of those things.

He ends up shagging Sarah in his room after all, after a few shots of vodka for each of them, and Tom makes a point of not letting his thoughts wander to Joe's blow job mouth during it.

6\. It's a quiet night. A quiet night, that means no gigs, no clubs, just the three of them sitting on the living room floor with Chinese and a bottle of tequila stood in the middle of them. Rhys puts on some of the records they've all acquired most recently, and tonight, he's got acid, so there's also acid.

They talk music, mostly, and it's a normal night. Rhys doesn't bring up bi-curiosity or threesomes or anything like that, not that he's been doing it a lot lately otherwise, but since that day in the studio, and that time in the living room, Tom has been a little wary around him, lest they might end up actually doing something. Like Rhys is some sort of sex offender, almost, which is a pretty ridiculous notion, since Rhys is roughly as threatening as a small animal.

Maybe a rabbit or something like that.

Rhys the least likely sexual predator in the world sucks a forkful of noodles from one of those paper takeaway boxes into his mouth and looks around their small circle on the scratchy old carpet, eyes all drunken and bright. He's prettier when he's drunk, Tom has noticed, when he touches his normally meticulously-kept hair with clumsy fingers or lets Joe (and only Joe) ruffle it carelessly, and when his eyes get all big and sparkly. Rhys is a happy drunk, and a cuddly drunk, at that, always looking to kiss and touch and get touched, the type that smiles for no reason and laughs, no, giggles, at everything. Rhys fucking giggles when he's drunk.

Like right now, he's picking a piece of egg out from his takeaway box with his fork and just laughs at it before he pushes it into his mouth as well. Tom reckons he wants to touch this drunken Rhys even more than the sober one, just push him backwards onto the carpet and kiss his thin lips and touch him all over until he squeaks, because Tom hasn't really thought any further than that. He laughs back, though, and Joe laughs too, and shoves a piece of spring roll into his mouth with his chopsticks.

Tom reaches for the tequila and fills all their glasses up full before he takes a swig from his. He's already more than sloshed, they all are, and he intends to get so shitfaced that he'll be able to sleep through the ferocious drunken sex that's sure to happen later tonight.

The needle slips from the record, and Rhys gets up to put on a different one. This one's the one that Rhys has bought some months ago that he's seemingly still obsessed with, because he puts it on at every opportunity. Psychedelic synthesiser melodies flood the room, and Rhys sinks back down onto the carpet next to Joe.

“Love this one,” he says, and Joe nods. They both sip their tequilas, and Rhys leans his back against the sofa and reaches out to prick a won ton onto his fork.

They're three songs into the album, at the song that may or may not be Rhys' favourite, when Rhys says, his mouth full of something that's probably a spring roll, “Tom. Hey, Tom, Tom, do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Tom asks.

“That synth line. The one that's, wait, here it is again.” Rhys pauses and holds his hands up, as if to make it more obvious what part of the song he's talking about, a soft, flowing electronic melody that reminds Tom of flowing water, a little. “Did you hear that?”

“Sounds pretty great.”

“I think we should do something like that at some point. Something that's all synths, but not artificial sounding, all organic and natural. You know what I mean, like that?” Rhys gets that look on his face that he gets when he talks about music, all ecstatic and twinkly-eyed, and combined with that general excitement he already has from being drunk, it just makes that want Tom has for him even worse.

“Yeah,” Tom says, and reaches for his glass once again. He can hear it, see it, almost, a whole elaborate soundscape. He lets the next few seconds of the song travel through him, the part that he knows is coming. “I like this bit. We could do something like that.”

“Like that, yeah.” Rhys takes another swig of tequila. “This part's my favourite.”

The song turns to a wavering, soft-flowing electronic harmony, and Rhys says, quietly, “I love this, when it gets all.” He raises both his hands and describes a vague motion around his head. It looks more like he's got a headache than anything. “When it gets into your brain and makes things flow, like that, I love that. It's just.”

His hands keep tracing strange patterns, but then Joe grabs for both his wrists and holds them still. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Rhys looks like he's vaguely attempting to struggle in Joe's grip. “Let me go?”

“You get cute when you're off your face.” Joe smiles, all soft and drunken, and Tom tries his hardest to look away.

“You're saying I'm not normally cute?” Rhys pulls a face. Tom would think it's funny if he wasn't also slightly nauseated by the thought of the two of them being affectionate around him.

Not that he'd mind if it were anyone else, but he knows what Joe and Rhys sound like when they're having sex, and that puts a really weird spin on things.

“No. You're always cute,” Joe corrects himself, laughs, and then he's closing the gap between them and kissing Rhys. His pretty, pretty full lips slide over Rhys' thin ones, and as much as Tom would like to look away, he really can't.

After a few seconds, Joe pulls back. He gives Rhys this look that's absolutely awful, in a completely-in-love and sex-tinged way, and Rhys looks back at him with a similar expression. They laugh at each other's faces, and Joe moves his one hand from Rhys' wrist further up his tiny arm. They're sitting way too close to each other.

“Maybe I should leave,” Tom says, and that really shouldn't have slipped out, but it did.

“No, don't,” Rhys says.

“Stay with us,” Joe adds.

Rhys pats the carpet next to him. “Come here.”

And what the hell does Tom do, he moves the tequila and the takeaway boxes out of the way and scuffles up the carpet. Maybe it's because he's sloshed, or maybe it's because he might as well get this over with. They're sitting in a triangle-shape of sorts, cross-legged and so close that their knees are brushing each other. Rhys laughs to himself once again, and then his hand is on Tom's thigh, too heavy and too warm.

“So, Tom.”

Tom repeats, “so.”

“Have you thought it over, then?”

“Thought over what?” He's playing dumb. In his defence, Rhys is being deliberately vague.

“Whether you'd want to give it a try.”

“What?” And the hand moves. Not to a specific destination, it just sort of pets Tom's thigh. “No. I mean, I don't really think about this sort of things.” In fact, Tom makes a point of avoiding any thoughts potentially related to gay threesomes.

“That's the best way of going about it, though.” Rhys smiles, all bright and drunken and pretty, and strokes over Tom's thigh some more, and says, “not thinking about this stuff. Just rolling with it.”

He's really close, when did his face get so close to Tom's, close enough for Tom to take in all the little details in his face, his long eyelashes and the mole below his nose, and all the imperfections in his crooked teeth. Then Tom stops thinking because Rhys is kissing him with soft lips, and okay. Okay.

He tries to focus on Rhys' face, his smudgy eyes and the way his fringe falls across his forehead, but then Rhys' tongue laps at his lips, carefully, and Tom just shuts his eyes and lets it happen. Rhys' mouth is warm and slick, tequila-flavoured, and his hand keeps stroking Tom's thigh.

It's nice, and that's not the right word to describe it, it's fucking great. Maybe Tom should do something with his hands other than just keep them lying around sort of uselessly, so he brings one up to cup Rhys' cheek and the other to take hold of his wrist. He relishes the soft little gasp Rhys pushes into his mouth when Tom tugs at his bottom lip, but then Rhys pulls away.

“So.” He keeps that hand resting where it was and places the other one up high on Joe's inner thigh. “What about now?” He laughs, yet again, or maybe still, and Tom laughs, as well.

He looks back and forth between the two of them, at Rhys' soft drunken-pretty smile, and at Joe's eyes, blown so wide almost all the blue is gone from them, and his mouth. His fucking mouth. “Yeah, I think,” Tom starts, but then, instead of figuring out how to finish that sentence, his thoughts wander to that mouth again.

So he leans over and kisses Joe, and Joe only seems startled for about a split second before he kisses back. He's different from Rhys, more timid, his lips softer and fuller, and when Tom moves his hand up to Joe's cheek, the skin there isn't quite as soft as Rhys'. He can feel the hard metal stud of a tongue ring press up against the roof of his mouth when Joe licks in deeper, and, god. Tom wonders what else he could do with that piercing he's got.

Rhys says, “well, that's cleared up, then,” and laughs to himself. “So, do we just...”

Tom looks at both of them again, and, honestly, he's not all too sure where he wants this to be going, other than generally in the direction of sex. “Yeah. Roll with it.”

Then they do, and Tom isn't sure how it happens, and not especially desperate to figure out why, either, but he ends up fucking Rhys right there on the floor. After he's put a towel on the carpet, because sloshed or not, he's still got some standards. Next to them, Joe is tugging on his own cock and trailing one hand all over Rhys, like he's not sure what part of Rhys to touch first. He gets pretty when he's having sex, not girlish-pretty like Rhys, but flushed pink with his hair messy and his eyes fluttering shut, lips bitten thick and red.

At first, Tom watches him kiss Rhys, soft and quick and so, so eager, before he leans down and takes over. He licks Joe's swollen, perfect mouth open with the same rhythm that he's fucking into Rhys squirming beneath him, takes turns with kissing, touching the both of them. Tom lets his lips trail over Rhys' sweaty cheekbones, his nose and his chin and his tiny, open mouth, his throat where his heartbeat is pounding quickly and his collarbones.

Rhys, fuck, Rhys is tighter than any girl could ever be, slick with lube and spit and clenching around Tom's cock, rolling his hips needy like he's trying to get it in deeper. He fucking howls, asks for it harder and faster and for more of it. Tom obliges, fucks him as violently as he possibly can, even when for Rhys, who's near insatiable and desperate and keening for it and apparently not faking it, it's still not enough.

There's sweat running into Tom's eyes and down to his back, collecting at the dip of his clavicles and dripping from his chest onto Rhys' heaving ribcage. The room is way too warm, almost warmer than the slick heat inside of Rhys, and it's fucking brilliant. Tom doesn't understand why he didn't give in sooner.

Later, when it's over, after Tom came deep inside of Rhys' twitching hole, so hard it felt like the whole world went off kilter for a second, and after they'd all wiped themselves and each other clean with that towel, they end up in Joe and Rhys' bed. This bed is bigger than the one in Tom's room, but he still gets a pointy elbow in the rib at first and then ends up with two arms and a leg draped across him, Rhys' face pressed into the crook of his neck and Joe's head halfway on his chest.

He's not quite sure where to put his own arms, which seems, after he thinks about it for a second, like an awfully pedantic issue, considering that he's just fucked one of his best mates while another one watched.

“Hey, Rhys?” he says into the dark, not sure whether he should expect an answer or not. “We've got to talk about this tomorrow.” It seems like the only thing to do in this situation that doesn't seem like a stupid idea.

“Yeah,” Rhys' soft voice comes in reply, all fucked out and sleepy. “Tomorrow.”

“When we're more sober,” Joe adds, and that's that.

In the end, when Tom wakes up the next morning to Rhys placing kisses onto his neck and Joe's slick mouth folded over the head of his cock, tongue ring pressing into the slit of it, he figures they can still talk about it later.


End file.
